Suddenly, a single wooden arrow pierced through the metal hood. Its white feathered end whipping in flurries with the passing wind.

Will glanced up, eyes stinging with sweat and dust. In the rear view mirror the Indians began to fall back.

Houses rushed past as Will and his wife entered the reservation neighborhood once again. His heart pounded violently. The Range Rover hurtled over the roadway like a flinging pinball in an arcade machine, bouncing over the ruts and dips embedded in the dusty earth.

Once again Willís eyes shot up to the rear view mirror. His foot let up suddenly on the gas.

Nothing.

Nothing. . . but the few houses at the edge of the poverty-stricken neighborhood, and miles of dirt road stretching endlessly into the barren plains.

The Range Rover skid to a stop in a cloud of dust. Willís heart froze for an instant.

"What the. . .!Ē he shouted crazily. "Holy mother, what the. . .!"

But they were gone.

The Indians of the Plains had disappeared. No dust stirred in the distance. No horse roamed the Montana range.

His eyes were drawn to the feathered arrow protruding eerily from the green hood of the Range Rover. He and his wife were silent.

A few moments later he finally drove on.

Shortly, the old Indianís house came into view, and also the old Indian. Once more, he was seated on the rocking chair, motionless on the dead grass in his blue jeans and flannel shirt.

Their eyes locked.

As Will sped by, the old Indian looked away to the plains.